


An Endless Calendar of Saturdays

by RobinLorin



Series: Boyfriend From Gascony [7]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Case Fic, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Schmoop, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-12
Updated: 2014-08-12
Packaged: 2018-02-12 20:23:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2123460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobinLorin/pseuds/RobinLorin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Treville calls in the Musketeers for backup on a sting. D'Artagnan just happens to be on the team that's preparing to kick down the door of a major gang's hideout. </p><p>And then things go sideways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Endless Calendar of Saturdays

**Author's Note:**

> _[Voiceover]: "Last time" on Boyfriend from Gascony AU!_
> 
> _“I don’t have time for this nonsense today,” said Constance, slapping a folder onto Porthos’ chest and pushing past him. “And don’t bother Anne, either,” she told Aramis sternly. “Rochefort uncovered a drug smuggling ring this morning and only brought in half the suspects.”_
> 
> _[...] Constance held out her hand and Porthos returned the folder she had given him. "Anyway, why would I be telling Athos about lolcats?" she continued. "They're not very funny."_

D'Artagnan's gentle snores filled the room. Athos could hear beeping and chattering beyond their private space, past the flimsy barrier of the sheer curtain that the nurses had pulled to allow Athos some privacy. He rested a gentle hand on d'Artagnan's head and closed his eyes, trying to match his breath to d’Artagnan’s.

Athos picked at the thin linen of the hospital bed sheet and waited for d'Artagnan to wake up.

Really, this was all Aramis' fault.

*** * * * ***

SEVEN HOURS EARLIER

The agency was quiet in the lazy stillness of noontime. They had wrapped a case two days ago and since then they’d had nothing.

Porthos was deeply engrossed in the latest issue of the European Scientific Journal. Aramis was intensely focused on whatever new app was the latest game this week. Athos was trying not to calculate how long it had been since d’Artagnan had texted him, and when Athos could text again without seeming needy. He was trying to focus on that day’s crossword puzzle when his phone buzzed.

“You got anything on the schedule?” Treville asked without preamble. Small talk between them had become unnecessary after Treville had once called Athos a stubborn devil with no sense of preservation and offered him a partnership with the police department. In return, Athos had called Treville a grouch with a god complex and accepted. They were on good terms.

Athos cast his eye over the empty agency and said, “Nothing urgent.”

"There's a situation we could use a hand with."

“What level?” The agency charged different fees for different jobs. They gave special discounts for children and grandmothers, but Athos wasn’t going to bet that Treville was offering a watercolor drawing in exchange for getting a kitten down from a tree.

“Intel for recon, and assist on the sting. We had a drug bust a few months ago, you may remember…” Treville coughed pointedly. It was the cough that jolted Athos’ memory; Treville would disparage one of his officer to their face, but not behind their back. The fact that Treville didn’t want to go into details meant that one of his men had fucked up.

“The Conein gang bust,” Athos said. Porthos looked up from his journal. Aramis kept his eyes on his phone but he raised an eyebrow.

The half-baked bust of the Conein gang had come down to miscommunication. Ill-informed officers had rushed in to seize several key gang members with their hands full of illegal drugs. Good collars all around, back-slapping self-congratulations, pop open the department-approved champagne. Meanwhile, the other key members of the organization had been on their way to the meetup, heard the news about a bust, and had gone into hiding so quickly and quietly that nothing had been heard on them for months.

“Precisely. We’ve found a link to the remaining members.”

“The ones that your officers let escape.”

Treville’s voice turned to pure irritation. “The ones that got away, Athos, is the official line. Detective Bonacieux suggested I call your team. Do you want to betray her trust as your interdepartmental liaison?”

“Certainly not. How are we needed?”

“Our sting was scheduled for 1200 hours. But at 1100 hours we saw Bellagio enter the building.”

Athos sat up straight. The Conein gang was a pest at the moment; weakened by the arrests of half of its members. But nothing would help revive it better than the godfatherly assistance of Martin Bellagio, an Italian expat who had made himself the kingpin of the Parisian drug industry.

“That would be quite a catch for the department,” he said. He nodded to the other two, who stood up. Porthos went for his ankle knife holster.

“And the biggest fuck-up if it fails.That’s why I’m calling you in. It’s Bellagio and two goons; think you three are enough to handle him?”

“How many officers on your end?”

“I’ve got a team of ten going in, twelve on the ground. Meet us in the 11e arrondissement ASAP. Oh, and Athos? Try to behave yourself." Treville hung up.

“I always behave,” Athos said to the empty line.

“I won’t even dignify that remark with a laugh,” said Porthos. He was wrapping reinforcing bandages around his wrists. “What did Treville want?”

“Are we cleaning up after his officers’ messes again?” Aramis asked. “I thought we were done with that when we left the police department.”

Athos pulled his Kevlar vest from the lockers standing against one wall. “If we want to eat, we’ll take the job.”

“Oh, no complaints here,” Aramis said. “I love rubbing it in their faces, how much better we are at their jobs than they are.”

“Vests?” Porthos said pointedly, looking at Athos’ steadily growing pile of gear.

Athos quickly explained the situation.

Aramis whistled. “We’d better get some recognition when the department arrests Bellagio.”

“Don’t say that.” Athos winced.

“Sorry.” Aramis quickly knocked on his desk. “ _If_ we get Bellagio.”

And that was where the trouble started. 

*** * * * *  
**

D’Artagnan rubbed his eyes. The weight of his Kevlar vest was dragging his shoulders down and giving him a headache. The high-noon sun was strong enough to burn through his sunglasses and pinpoint the pain.

“Here,” said Zénaide, another intern. D’Artagnan held out his hand for a cup of coffee and got a tissue instead. “You’ve got a smudge on your nose,” said Zénaide.

“Thanks,” d’Artagnan sighed. He rubbed at the stray spot of dust. “Is there any progress?”

“Still waiting on the captain’s word.”

That’s all they’d been doing since the operation had screeched to a halt an hour ago. The detectives had been poised to charge and d’Artagnan, his heart thumping in his chest, had been waiting on the go-ahead call.

And then, as the last checks of equipment and call signs had finished, the surveillance team across the street had reported an unexpected visitor to the apartment building that the Conein gang was using as their meeting spot. Martin Bellagio, an Italian transplant who was known as the drug lord of Paris.

This case mattered too much to the department for the team to mess up on it. The original takedown of half of the Conein gang had happened a few months before d’Artagnan had transferred to Paris. Apparently, it had been an “embarrassment” -- Captain Treville’s words -- and a “massive fuck-up, and everyone blames each other” -- Zénaide’s phrasing.

Zénaide had been at the police academy at Mont d’Or with d’Artagnan. She had recognized him when he transferred, and had welcomed him by challenging the traffic officer who sat at the desk next to Zénaide’s to a  thumb war. The desk was d’Artagnan’s now, after Zénaide had defeated the officer in a best-of-three game. Zénaide, claiming that her win entitled her to one-fourth of the desk, frequently propped her boots up on the corner and ignored d’Artagnan’s grumbles. 

“We interns have got to stick together,” she’d said in her slight Haitian accent. “And I need someone else to do the coffee runs for once.”

Like d’Artagnan, she was on this case thanks to Detective Rochefort. Interns were frequently paired with detectives for their first year. D’Artagnan and Zénaide had been put with Rochefort for the week. They had resigned themselves to a full week of rolling their eyes behind Rochefort’s back while Rochefort droned on about how he was distantly related to a Pope or the best way to polish antique silverware. Then the Conein gang had reappeared, all hands had been called to help, and the two interns had been swept into the case by proxy.

It was by far the most exciting thing that had happened to d’Artagnan in Paris. This is what he had longed for in Gascony. It was a chance to prove himself.

Captain Treville emerged from the communications van and said, “Listen up.” His voice was low in deference to their surroundings, but they all heard the muffled shout in it.

D’Artagnan and Zénaide jerked to attention. Other officers stopped talking and turned toward the captain.

“Due to the sensitive nature of this situation, I’ve called in backup. The Musketeers Agency will be assisting us in intel and providing additional team members for the takedown. ”

D’Artagnan tensed, expecting groans and scorn from the detectives. But, incredibly, the mood of the team lightened. Some of the detectives smiled, and a nearby cluster of three younger officers leaned toward each other to whisper excitedly. That certainly wasn’t the kind of reaction that d’Artagnan had expected after hearing Porthos talk darkly about the department’s behavior during the Milady Trial.

D’Artagnan looked instinctively for Constance, who was Head Detective and thus highly involved with the operation. She had put together the original sting and was looking very high-strung. She frowned at him when she saw him looking. D’Artagnan got the message -- _behave, or else!_ \-- and looked away quickly.

His eyes landing on Rochefort, who was frowning. He was surrounded by a few detectives who were his age -- forty-five -- and older, who had similar expressions of discontent on their faces. They probably remembered the Milady Trial in full detail. Suddenly Porthos’ words made more sense.

“I expect professional behavior from all of you,” Captain Treville said. He passed an eye over Rochefort and his group, the smiling detectives, and d’Artagnan, who did his best to look agreeable.

Apparently satisfied, Captain Treville nodded. “We reconvene when they get here. Bonacieux, with me.” He disappeared into the van again.

Officers broke into chatter. Zénaide nudged d’Artagnan. "Aren't we lucky?” she said. “The Musketeers, on our case."

"Are the Musketeers really so well liked?" d’Artagnan asked.

Zénaide grinned. "Oh, you haven't met them yet. I forgot you transferred here late. Wait ‘till you see them. They give a new meaning to ‘eye candy’.”

One of the three detectives behind them, Matin -- a twenty-something plump woman with dreadlocks -- said, “Or I guess you shouldn't look, d’Artagnan, since you have a _boyfriend_."

Her partner, Gris, laughed quietly. Matin wasn’t so restrained, and she hooted at her own joke.

D’Artagnan tried not to flush. He had obeyed Captain Treville’s order to take down the pictures of Athos from his social media sites, but the habit of talking about his boyfriend was harder to break. According to Matin, d’Artagnan had mentioned his boyfriend exactly twenty-six times in the course of the Conein case. And the case had just begun that week.

D’Artagnan’s stomach clenched with nerves at the thought of Athos on the case. They had talked about keeping their relationship quiet at the office, but they hadn’t talked about what to do if they worked together on a case. Seeing each other across the bullpen was easy enough -- avoid eye contact and commiserate about the department’s terrible coffee later that night. But in a few minutes, he and Athos would be in the same room together, working on the same case.

If there was one thing that d’Artagnan would never doubt, it was Athos’ feelings for him. Athos was affectionate on dates, holding d’Artagnan’s hand and buying him things and letting d’Artagnan drop kisses on his cheek and call him “honey bear.” And that was nothing compared to Athos in private.

But D’Artagnan hadn’t been blind to the fact that it had taken Athos months to introduce d’Artagnan to his friends. D’Artagnan pretended he didn’t see the way Athos sometimes looked at him like Athos wasn’t sure what to do with -- no, for -- d’Artagnan. Like he thought d’Artagnan might disappear if Athos didn’t buy him the right trinket or recite the right romantic poetry.

D’Artagnan had done his best to give Athos space, and time, and shower him with affection while giving Athos a chance to figure out that d’Artagnan didn’t need fancy words or gifts. D’Artagnan would play with Athos’ rules according to Athos’ needs.

And now there was a high chance that d’Artagnan would blurt out something dumb and embarrass Athos. Or let slip about them being together and submit Athos to embarrassing personal questions.

Or focus too much on Athos and embarrass himself.

D’Artagnan shook those thoughts out of his head and tuned back into the conversation.

“That doesn’t compare to that time when the Spanish one had to strip to his boxers when he spilled chemicals on himself,” Matin was saying. “Massive… scar.”

“The other one, what’s his name, he’s all right,” said the other detective, an improbably skinny man named St. Aube.

“Athos, and only if you like the depressed type,” said Matin.

“Oh, he’s not depressed,” said Gris. “Kind of, what’s the word. Melancholy. He’s quiet, but in a nice way.”

“You’re all blind if you don’t want to climb the big one like a tree,” said Zénaide. “Porthos?”

“Yeah, that’s it,” said Gris.

“I was more focused on his arms than his introduction, if you know what I mean.”

D’Artagnan didn’t know whether to cringe or to store this gossip to tease the Musketeers with. Considering the preening they’d do, though, maybe cringing was the better option.

“Oh, shut up,” St. Aube hissed. “There they are.”

D’Artagnan tried not to whip around too quickly. Luckily, his obvious staring was disguised by more than a few other detectives also obviously staring.

Athos, Aramis, and Porthos had climbed out of Athos’ car and were striding toward the group of officers. D’Artagnan briefly envied the effect they made: all in leather jackets with the Musketeer Agency fleur-de-lis logo on the bicep, with black gloves on their hands and gun belts wrapped around their waists (or riding low on hips, in Aramis’ case).

Athos was looking especially dangerous in his blue leather jacket. D’Artagnan admired the curve of his narrow, nearly dainty waist and the hollow of his throat just peeking out from under his jacket. His hair was looking a little shaggy; d’Artagnan idly made a mental note to nag Athos about a haircut later.

He thought he saw Athos glance his way, but a moment later he had reached the comm van and was knocking on the door. Aramis and Porthos glanced around at the crowd of milling detectives, watching Athos’ back as always. D’Artagnan was sure that Aramis saw him, but Aramis didn’t elbow Porthos or smirk at d’Artagnan or anything. They were in serious mode, then.

Constance poked her head out of the van, called something back to the captain, and then took the hand that Athos offered her to step down from the van. Captain Treville climbed down and called for the team to gather around the makeshift table -- a trash can covered with maps and blueprints.

The team clustered in around it. D’Artagnan and Zénaide got pushed to the fringes of the circle. D’Artagnan kept his eyes on Captain Treville, intensely aware of Athos in his peripheral vision.

Captain Treville began with the rundown of the situation thus far: the intel acquired over months that pointed to the Conein gang living in unlisted basement apartments of the complex. The sting, organized by Head Detective Bonacieux and overseen by Captain Treville, that would capture the rest of the gang for once and for all. The appearance of Bellagio and two men in ill-fitting suits that undoubtedly hid high-power weapons.

Constance -- Head Detective Bonacieux, d’Artagnan reminded himself -- tapped a finger on the largest blueprint. “Our strategy was to surround the apartment building: Team A in front and Team B in back. Team A will be the offensive, entering through the front door and cutting off any escape routes. Team B will enter through the cellar door and come up through the basement, then go up the stairs first, located toward the back of the building.” She swept a finger up the printed stairway. “Sweep for suspects and cuff them. Accounting for your numbers, we can add two to Team A and one to Team B. Porthos, you’re a heavy hitter, so you’ll be on Team B. You’ll be the head of the charge up the stairs.”

“But,” said d’Artagnan.

Everyone turned to look at him. 

He kept his eyes on Detective Bonacieux, ignoring Ath-- the others. “Bellagio’s men will be inside the doorway. Porthos should be on the front door… as a heavy hitter, like you said,” he added weakly, pretending he didn’t have firsthand knowledge of Porthos’ strength. He still had bruises from being slung over Porthos’ shoulder and carried down the bowling lane from when Porthos had pretended to stuff d’Artagnan down the pin pit last week.

“How do you know where Bellagio’s men will be?” Captain Treville asked sharply.

“He said it just before he went inside.” D’Artagnan raised a hand and twisted it in an Italian gesture. “It means ‘wait here.’ The mics didn’t pick it up because it’s a phrase that doesn’t need sound.”

“And as his henchmen aren’t outside,” Athos drawled, “they must be on the other side of the door.”

The attention of the team slid from d’Artagnan, the intern, to Athos, the leather-clad Musketeer. Athos, though, was still looking at d’Artagnan, and he tipped his head and smiled at d’Artagnan through his eyelashes, just a fraction.

It was the smile he gave d’Artagnan when he had something that surprised Athos. There was pride there, too, shining in his eyes  for a brief moment before Athos turned back to Captain Treville. D’Artagnan had to quickly look away before he did something embarrassing and give himself away, like grin back or jump Athos’ bones.

“Alright,” Constance said briskly. “So, Porthos, you’ll take second to me on Team A. Aramis, Athos, you’re seconds on Team B. Rochefort will take point. You’ll all be fitted with earpieces. Everyone else, got it?”

The group of officers and detectives responded with general agreement, and the circle broke up.

"Looks like you caught the eye of the moody one,” Zénaide said. “It's not easy to do that -- he doesn't usually give praise."

"What can I say? I'm eye catching."

* * * * *

 _“Behave yourself.”_ Treville’s warning had puzzled Athos until they had arrived the scene. At first he had seen Rochefort and wondered if that was who Treville meant -- the man was annoying, but not aggressive -- but then d’Artagnan had moved out of the shadow of a tree and Athos’ heart had stopped. Seeing d’Artagnan in the police-issued black Kevlar vest with his sweaty hair pulled back in a short ponytail hit home the fact that d’Artagnan was putting his life on the line.

Well, of course he was. D’Artagnan was a police officer, after all. And Athos was a private investigator. It was what they did. Athos had known that, had even found solace in the idea that d’Artagnan would understand the pressures of being a detective. And he was proud of d’Artagnan for following the career path he had chosen.

That didn’t explain why Athos couldn’t stop pacing as they readied themselves.

“Are you going to be…”

Athos cut Porthos off. “Fine.”

Never mind Treville’s worry; Athos was a professional, and though he was young, d’Artagnan understood discretion. No, Treville could rest easy. They wouldn’t be involved in any messy sort of domestic stuff here. Athos was alright with affection gestures in public, but going on dates and seeing each other prior to a gang takedown were different things. The last thing he wanted was holding hands at a crime scene.

Athos looked around again for d’Artagnan’s messy mop of hair. He found it in three seconds, clustered with the others around Treville. His heart relaxed into a normal pattern again, and he could look away.

He hadn’t been able to help the smile that had stolen over his face when d’Artagnan had spoken up about Bellagio’s silent and thoroughly Italian order to his henchmen. He had been so proud of d’Artagnan for seeing what no one else had seen. Athos had seen the pleased look on d’Artagnan’s face before they had both looked away.

“It is his first op,” Porthos said mildly. He wasn’t looking at Athos, which at least made his concern a little easier to bear. He was watching Aramis do his pre-workout lunges with a fanatical degree of attention.

“I’m aware,” Athos said stiffly.

“All I’m saying is, anyone would be worried about him. Hell, I’m worried about him.”

Athos stopped pacing and stared at Porthos. “Thank you. That’s so comforting.”

“D’Artagnan can handle himself,” Aramis grunted as he finished his stretches. “What I’m more worried about is the leader of our team.” Aramis’ expression soured as he glanced over to where the leader of Team B, Detective Rochefort, was instructing his officers. “I thought we’d never have to work with those asspots again after we quit the department.”

“Don’t,” Athos said. “Not for my sake. It’s not worth it.”

“The hell it isn’t,” Porthos began heatedly, but Athos shook his head. He was grateful that his friends defended him, but holding grudges against detectives who had gossiped about Athos when.. _her_ … case was making national news was taking it a bit far. It had been years ago. If Athos resented everyone who gossiped, he’d certainly have a hard time talking to the informants who kept the agency in business.

“I heard that he was the one who botched the Conein case in the first place,” Aramis said. “That’s different -- hating a man for incompetency -- isn’t it?”

“Or how about hating him because he always smells like sour milk?” said Porthos.

“Mm, I have noticed that,” Aramis agreed. “Personally, I find his sense of fashion atrocious.”

“That’s nothing compared to his dating choices. Did you see him in the society pages last month?”

Athos tried to hold on to his antsy feeling of earlier, but it was slipping away with each remark. He sighed. _Now who's a pair of old gossips_ , he thought fondly, and deliberately brushed their shoulders with his own as he went to join Team B.

The antsy feeling was completely gone as he lined up with the other detectives. His mind was free of clutter and concern, and he could focus on the sting with a steely concentration. He went over the objectives in his mind: enter cellar and ascend to first floor; wait for Porthos to enter front door; subdue any escaping suspects; ascend stairway; secure the scene; arrest all suspects. He envisioned the scene and the steps he would take, overlaying the blueprints with what he could see of the apartment building.

He nodded to Porthos and Aramis; and then, unable to help it, found d’Artagnan in the other team’s line. D’Artagnan was busy adjusting his vest and didn’t look up, but just the sight of him sent a wave of calm through Athos. He faced forward with a clear head.

Treville’s voice in their earpieces commanded the teams to take their places. And so it began.

The cellar door was lifted with minimal noise. Athos followed Rochefort into the dark cellar, feeling Aramis at his shoulder. They crouched in the darkness with Paris’ finest, waiting for the signal from Treville. They heard from above the sound of a door being kicked open, and Treville’s voice sounded in their ears.

_“Team B, move in now.”_

The team moved as one to the stairs, pounding up them and spreading to each side to cover the first floor. Treville kept his people well-trained. Athos easily fit into their group; he swept the left corner of the room and the woman next to him swept the right corner. They exchanged nods and called an all-clear.

The apartment was old Parisian, all made of wood and plaster. The paint was peeling in the corners of the walls, and the first floor was bare of any furnishings. Loud grunts issued from the front of the apartment as Porthos and d’Artagnan’s team subdued Bellagio’s men. Athos spared only a thought -- and an involuntary, nervous twist of his stomach -- for d’Artagnan, and then he focused on analyzing the rickety-looking wooden staircase.

By now they could hear loud voices coming from upstairs. It was their team’s place to secure the second floor; Athos left Porthos to it and followed Rochefort’s lead up the wooden stairs, which creaked and groaned.

The second floor was panic on the border of chaos. The Conein gang leaders had heard the ruckus from downstairs and drawn the correct conclusion. There was much yelling and cursing and scrambling for objects. Athos glanced at the lone table in the middle of the room to make sure there were no weapons and only caught a glimpse of pastel colored, oblong plastic shapes -- drug capsules, most likely. He dismissed them for the moment.

One of the Conein gang, a pimpled young man, was visibly torn between climbing out the window and shooting his way out; he ran back and forth from the window to the stairs. When he saw Rochefort appear at the top of the steps he reared back in near-comic surprise. Rochefort took the opportunity to hit him upside the head with his baton, and the young man fell to the floor.

 _Bad form_ , Athos thought distantly; _that’s another thing for Aramis to complain about_ \-- but then his thoughts were speeding forward, sorting through the remaining threats, and Rochefort was unimportant.

Athos took another step into the room and levelled his weapon at another of the Conein gang leaders. His face was familiar from case files and newspaper articles. The sneer that Athos regularly saw below the fold was just as unimpressive in real life.

“Lie on the floor with your hands on your head,” Athos commanded. The man’s hand twitched like he might reach for a weapon. Athos stared him down. The man’s sneer grew more pronounced, but he complied. Athos holstered his weapon and secured the man with zip ties in a few short movements. He signalled over his shoulder for other members of Team B to enter the second floor. A few police officers passed him and spread out, each taking a suspect.

By the time he stood up, four gang leaders still remained uncuffed. One of them charged at a plump detective with dreadlocks and was summarily pulled into an arm drag and put on the floor in a form-perfect wrestling move.

“Fuck this!” one of the remaining drug dealers yelled. Athos could instantly tell that it was Bellagio by his high-quality tailored suit, his Italian complexion, and the fact that he was screaming, “I’m not gonna go down with a half-baked clubhouse of ass-licking frogs!”

One of the two Conein gang members left jumped on Bellagio’s back, presumably to return the insult. Bellagio picked up one of the plastic objects from the table and hit the gang member around the head with it until he fell off and slumped on the floor, clutching his bleeding head.

“Drop the weapon, or I will fire,” Athos demanded.

Bellagio barely paused, but barrelled toward Athos, a frantic light in his eyes. He was still holding the plastic object above his head. Athos raised his weapon and shifted to stand more firmly between Bellagio and the stairs.

Athos discharged his weapon and Bellagio howled. A bullseye circle of blood appeared on Bellagio’s suit sleeve.

“Fuck you, asshat,” Bellagio said, and swung the injured arm, still holding the plastic object, at Athos’ head.

He was too close for Athos to shoot -- they needed him alive -- Athos stepped back and Bellagio’s weapon caught him glancingly on the cheek.

The edge of the old, wooden step cracked beneath his foot. And then he was falling.

* * * * *

D'Artagnan's face appeared in Athos' vision. Other faces had appeared, and disappeared, and some had done a sort of cloning trick where they split in two and then merged again. But d’Artagnan's face was the most important. It was a really lovely face, probably the loveliest Athos had ever seen.

The light was so bright, he almost couldn't see d'Artagnan. Athos must have forgotten to close the blinds last night.

"I’m thinking about getting a haircut this morning," he told d'Artagnan. "How about that diner with the good brunch after?"

He wasn't sure if he actually said it. He was very tired. He must have worked very hard yesterday, to be so tired on a Saturday morning. That was alright. He'd stay in bed with d'Artagnan until it was time to properly wake up. He tried to bring d'Artagnan closer, but his arms were too heavy.

Oh, d'Artagnan was saying something. He'd have to speak louder, Athos couldn't hear him over the noise, the buzzing, there must be the most enormous bee outside the window…

* * * * *

Someone was shining a light in his eyes. Athos tried to blink and found that someone was holding up his eyelid.

“Slow pupil response,” said a clinical voice. “Oh, is that you, honey?” The hand let go of his face. “Are you waking up? Here.” An arm reached across him and dimmed the room.

No, not the room. Athos grasped for the correct words. The light. Someone had dimmed the light of the room.

“Can you hear me? Athos?”

They were calling him. He meant to respond, but the words tangled somewhere in his throat and emerged as a dry grunt.

“That’s good. Note ‘recognition’ on the chart.”

Athos wanted to say that he didn’t have a chart, but it was too exhausting.

“I’m going to check your head now, okay, Athos?” Fingers probed at his head. He’d ask them why they were prodding him when he gathered the energy. Then the fingers touched a spot that crackled with wet sparks of pain. It moved like electricity, dancing along his skin and sinking into the flesh, into the gray matter. Someone must have turned the light up again; Athos could only see white, blinding white; and then there were starbursts of color as the pain faded.

His head suddenly throbbed. A full-brain shudder that echoed again and again, overlapping.

“Okay, we’ll leave that on. You’re doing alright, Athos. We’re going to give you some of the nice stuff, okay? Time to sleep again.” The voice sounded like it was submerged in water, and sinking fast. “We’ve got some people waiting to see you when you wake up.”

* * * * *

D’Artagnan clenched his hands tighter, watching the knuckles turn red and then white. If he balanced his elbows on his knees and folded his hands, he could focus on his body and ignore his surroundings. He could pretend he was just… sitting and staring at a blank wall. Not waiting for news in a hospital wing, across from the nurses’ station, listening to patients cry out and monitors beep.

A styrofoam cup full of coffee appeared under d’Artagnan’s downturned face. The coffee wafted a few feeble wisps of heat.

“It’ll do you good,” Porthos said.

D’Artagnan shook his head without speaking. He didn’t know if he could keep anything down right now.

Porthos set the coffee on the arm of d’Artagnan’s chair. “It’s here if you want it.”

D’Artagnan turned his head to look at the end of the hallway. Aramis was pacing the length of the window that overlooked the tidy apartments of the street below. Porthos had been pacing a hole in the rug in the same spot, before Aramis had put a hand on his shoulder and told him to take a break and find some coffee. It seemed that they shared worrying duties just as they shared everything else.

D’Artagnan looked back at his hands. He clenched his hands until the knuckles turned white, and held the grip, like his hands were connected to Athos’ lifeline and the hurt of his knuckles was the only thing keeping it strong. It was funny, the things that people came up with when they were trying to bargain for the life of someone they loved.

He couldn’t stop imagining the fall.

He hadn’t been in the room when Athos had fallen; he had been in the front room with another detective. They had heard the chaos from upstairs and although d’Artagnan had longed to join in and see it for himself, he knew that was what Team B was for.

He had been sweeping the sparse space for drugs or papers when he had heard the crack, and the terrible half-second of silence as everybody upstairs caught their breath in startlement, and then the uncoordinated, quick-fire crashes of a body falling down the stairs.

And the final _thunk_ as Athos’ head had hit the floor.

D’Artagnan had taken off at a dead sprint. A few of the Team B detectives who’d been at the base of the stairs when Athos fell were already clustered around him by the time d’Artagnan got there. D’Artagnan had shouldered them aside, not caring who he pushed or what rank they were.

Athos’ eyes had been fluttering, like he had been too tired to stay awake. D’Artagnan had bracketed Athos’ face with his hands and said his name, at first calmly and then increasingly desperately when Athos didn’t speak. At one point Athos looked like he was about to say something, and then he’d made a garbled noise and shut his eyes. He hadn’t opened them again, no matter how much d’Artagnan tried to wake him.

D’Artagnan hadn’t seen him since.

Treville had been at the house in less than a minute, demanding answers. Constance had already been on the phone with emergency, requesting an ambulance to their address. Thank all the mercies for Constance.

That’s something his mother used to say: _thank all the mercies_. D’Artagnan remembered her saying it once when he was curled up on her bed. She’d been stroking his hair and talking to his father. He couldn't remember now if it was her bed at home or her hospital bed. He’d been too young to keep full memories of her. He didn’t have scenes, only excerpts.

His dread didn’t have anything to do with being in a hospital again; that time was so behind him that he could barely remember it. All his worry for Athos stemmed from the raw, red ache that scraped at his throat whenever he remembered Papa’s death.

He still dreamed of Papa’s blood on his hands. Sometimes it was the stain that stayed, the telltale mark of a young man who’d held his father as his last breath bubbled up out of his throat. Sometimes it was fresh, red blood on d’Artagnan’s hands, brighter than it had been in real life; and it would drip over his paperwork and his lunch until d’Artagnan gave up and let it ooze down his arms and cover him completely.

He stared at his hands. His knuckles were white, whiter than his father’s skin had ever been, and d’Artagnan clenched them harder, and ground his teeth, and squeezed his eyes shut, and felt his body in complete stillness as his spirit trembled.

“Friends of Athos?”

D’Artagnan dropped his hands to his sides and stood up. Porthos and Aramis appeared next to him. “Yes?”

The nurse with “Aimée” on her name tag looked tired. “He’s awake.” She gestured to Athos’ room and turned to lead the way without further comment. D’Artagnan hurried after her.

“Is he okay?” His throat was so dry. His eyes were prickling.

“He’s speaking coherently, his head wound has stopped bleeding so that’s a good sign, he’s got minor delayed reaction in his pupils,” Aimée rattled off. “Probably not a concussion, but we’ll keep him for the night.”

It was evening already. “How long can we stay?”

“Visitors’ hours ended at 5. You can stay ten minutes with him, no more.”

D’Artagnan felt a rush of gratitude toward the unsmiling, tired nurse. “Thank you so much.”

Aimée nodded and stopped at Athos’ door. “Quiet talking or you’re booted out.”

“Absolutely,” d’Artagnan promised, already disappearing into Athos’ room.

Aramis grabbed d’Artagnan’s arm. D’Artagnan stopped, confused.

“Just a word of advice,” Porthos said. “Athos doesn’t like being hurt.”

“Or pitied,” Aramis added.

“Or pitied. So don’t go overboard. Yeah?”

D’Artagnan nodded impatiently. “Yeah, of course.” He headed into Athos’ room again, Aramis and Porthos flanking him.

There were two beds, but one lay empty. Athos was propped up in the second bed. There was a bruise on his cheekbone and he wore a narrow strip of thick white gauze bandage on his head, surrounded by a bald patch. He had swapped his blue leather for a pale blue hospital gown, and he looked strangely small in the bed.

D’Artagnan crossed to Athos’ bedside and grabbed his hands. “It’s good to see you awake,” he said. He throat tightened and he blinked rapidly. Following Porthos’ advice was difficult when Athos’ bruised face was right in front of him and d’Artagnan could feel the blood pulsing red in his fragile wrists.

“We thought you’d sleep forever,” said Aramis blithely. “We were just planning to leave for rue Oberkampf. I hear there’s a charming new café there.”

Athos was staring at d’Artagnan. “You’re not hurt?” he said.  

“Me? You should be worried about yourself.”

“But you’re not hurt?” Athos persisted.

“No, I’m not. I’m just fine.” D’Artagnan ran his thumb soothingly across Athos’ palm. “Are you hurt? Do you need pain meds?”

“They gave me some,” Athos said. He had a dazed, unfocused air, and he swayed a little when he turned to look at Aramis and Porthos standing next to d’Artagnan. “Are you okay?”

Aramis smiled and touched the back of Athos’ hand. “We’re okay.”

“You’re okay?” Athos asked Porthos.

Porthos laid his hand on Athos’ arm. “I’m okay.”

“Good.” Athos closed his eyes. “We’re all okay.”

“Yes, we’re all --" D’Artagnan’s throat closed up.

“D’Artagnan?”

He shook his head wordlessly at Porthos’ murmur. Porthos sighed and took his hand from Athos to wrap his arm around d’Artagnan. “He’s all right,” he said. “He’s come back from worse things.”

“But he -- “

D’Artagnan couldn’t have said it aloud even if Athos had jumped out of bed and done the hula.

 _But he wasn’t_ mine _then._

Athos opened one eye. “Porthos?”

Porthos put his free hand on Athos’ arm. “Still here.”

“Alright.” Athos’ eye closed again. After a moment, he said, “Constance is going to be so mad at us.”

Aramis choked on a laugh. “Mad at _us_ , my friend? We didn’t bleed all over her op. I think you’ll be buying her flowers this time.”

“No, no,” Athos said, his eyes still closed. D’Artagnan recognized the tilt to his lips that appeared whenever Athos was trying to pretend he was debating a point, not bantering, and he felt his heart tighten at the familiar quirk. “I was doing my job. Bellagio will be buying her the flowers.”

D’Artagnan took a deep, shaky breath. The worst was over. “That will be hard to do from jail,” he said.

“We got him?”

“Yes.” D’Artagnan leaned his head against Aramis’ in silent thanks. Aramis had taken advantage of the room’s collective surprise after Athos’ fall to pin and cuff Bellagio.

“Knock on wood,” Athos mumbled.

“Oh, don’t blame this on me,” Aramis said. D’Artagnan looked at him questioningly. “I’ll tell you later.”

Aimée, the nurse, reappeared in the doorway. “Time’s up.”

“Okay.” D’Artagnan squeezed Athos’ hands. “We’ve got to go now, Athos. But we’ll be back tomorrow, okay?”

Athos frowned at him. “No. It’s Saturday.”

D’Artagnan’s brain stalled. “Saturday?” Was this some kind of boyfriend code he was supposed to know?

“You’re supposed to sleep over.”

“Oh,” d’Artagnan laughed, relieved. “I can’t sleep over. It’s only Wednesday.” It made sense, if he looked at it backwards. Athos wanted him to stay, and for that it would have to be Saturday.

Then d’Artagnan realized that he would have another lazy Saturday morning with Athos, their fragile bodies pressing bruises into each other with tangled knees and clumsy elbows. And there would be another Saturday after that, and another; an endless calendar of Saturdays. He had to take another deep breath. The worst, it seemed, wasn’t quite as behind him as he’d thought.

“I have to go,” he repeated, tugging his hands away from Athos’ grip. Athos reached out for him, chasing d’Artagnan’s hands.

“Please stay,” said Athos, “I love you.”

Saying that d’Artagnan froze was an understatement.

Probably the whole room froze. Probably all of Paris froze, all the tourists and drug dealers and head detectives freezing in their spots for a good three seconds.

Probably all of France froze; everyone except Aimée, who was still standing impatiently in the doorway of the hospital room and was three visitors away from ending her shift and going home.

D’Artagnan pretended his hands weren’t trembling as he touched Athos’ cheek, then bent to kiss the same spot.

“I love you too,” d’Artagnan said. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?” He peeled Athos’ hands away and staggered into Porthos and Aramis. They steered him toward the door.

Once they were in the hallway outside, Aramis peered at d’Artagnan.

“Perhaps we should go to rue Oberkampf after all. You look you need something to buck you up.”

D’Artagnan nodded numbly. Porthos gently pushed him in the direction of the exit.

“Something tame, I think,” Porthos said to Aramis over d’Artagnan’s head.

“Well, that rules out Madame Angel’s. How about Le Ciel, you know, the place with the heavenly hot cocoa…”

D’Artagnan let their soothing voices calm his pulse. He barely noticed as they exited the hospital into the balmy night. He couldn’t stop seeing Athos’ bruised face and sheared hair, and the lost expression as he’d reached out and said, “I love you.”

And there was another memory too, more like an excerpt, of a woman reaching wistfully for d’Artagnan as he was carried away, mouthing “I love you” and waving. For the last time? He couldn’t remember.

* * * * *

Athos woke to a numb leg. D’Artagnan was sleeping on him again. Athos would have to wait until either d’Artagnan moved or the urge to pee got too strong.

Athos wiggled around carefully and then paused. This wasn’t his mattress. This wasn’t his bed.

Those weren’t the quiet sounds of his apartment, either -- loud voices in other rooms and the persistent beeping of machinery.

He cracked his eyes open. The first thing he saw was a thin plastic curtain in front of his bed. It had an atrocious purple-and-blue zigzag pattern printed on it. Athos nearly groaned aloud when he realized where he was.

He glanced down at his leg and saw d’Artagnan’s head pillowed on his thigh, as he’d thought. D’Artagnan sat in a plastic visitor’s chair. His arms were folded on the edge of Athos’ bed.

Athos’ body’s complaints suddenly made themselves known to him. The pains in his back and shoulders damn just about broke down his front door, they were so eager to introduce themselves.

Athos fumbled for the call button. He had to press it twice, the pain behind his eyes mounting, until a nurse came in.

“What’s -- oh,” she caught sight of d’Artagnan and lowered her voice. “What’s the matter…” She flipped through his chart. “Athos. Are you feeling nauseous?”

“No. Just a headache.” It wasn’t ‘just’ anything, but he knew she was checking for symptoms of a concussion.

She took a penlight from her breast pocket and shone it in his eyes. “Good dilation. Can you follow the light for me? Any dizziness?”

“No.”

“Double vision?”

“No.”

She put the light away. “And can you remember the date?”

He recited it dutifully.

“Okay. And you need something for the headache? Do you ever have migraines?”

“No,” he gritted out. He could feel the ache in his sinuses now.

“Alright. Then I can give you this,” she attached a plastic bag of clear liquid to his IV line. “And you’re done. I’ll be back in a few minutes to check on you, okay?”

She glanced at d’Artagnan and smiled. “You’ve got a good one here. You know, out of all the ones who tried to get in, I’m glad he’s the one who made it.”

She disappeared. Athos stared after her, puzzled by her comment about “all the other ones.” He looked at d’Artagnan again. His head was turned toward Athos, and Athos could see the dark circles under his eyes. Had he been here all night? No, there were visiting hours. Athos glanced at the window. it might be later morning. Had d’Artagnan slept at all last night?

Athos didn’t think he would have slept if it had been d’Artagnan who fell down a flight of stairs.

He remembered the jolt of falling, and then maybe something with d’Artagnan showing up… That memory strained his brain and he dismissed it. The next thing he remembered was d’Artagnan and Porthos and Aramis standing by his bed and holding his hands. Athos had been concerned about the op; worried that they had also been hurt and were hiding it from him. Like a dream, it had made sense at the time, but applying logic to it didn’t work.

He had been worried about d’Artagnan. Athos hadn’t wanted him to go. And d’Artagnan had looked so frail, with tears in his eyes and his hands so cold where they clutched at Athos’ fingers.

Athos picked at the thin linen of the hospital bed sheet, watching d’Artagnan sleep. He looked like he needed it. 

This was all Aramis’ fault.

Aramis just had to jinx them, didn’t he. “ _When_ the department arrests Bellagio,” not _if_. Aramis’ desk wasn’t even real wood; it was refinished plastic. Well, next time Aramis could take the tumble down the staircase and Athos would knock on wood.

D’Artagnan turned his head slightly on Athos’ lap and his deep breaths turned to snores. They provided a comforting personal soundtrack to the unfamiliar sounds of the hospital beyond their hidden space, past the flimsy barrier of the sheer curtain.

Athos laid a gentle hand on d’Artagnan’s head. His hair was slightly wet; Porthos or Aramis must have bullied him into taking a shower and, hopefully, collapsing onto his bed for a few hours.

If Athos closed his eyes -- and he did -- he could pretend that they were in Athos’ apartment and it was Saturday morning, light filtered in through the window and d’Artagnan curled around him.

That idea stirred something in his memory, but sleep claimed him before he could properly investigate it.

_“It’s Saturday. Please stay.”_

Athos woke with a jolt, the memory of the words he’d said next fizzing in his veins like adrenaline.

No, not just like adrenaline. His pulse was elevated and his feet were tingling, his body’s reaction to flight-or-fight chemicals. His leg was still asleep. He glanced at d’Artagnan and wondered if the “I love you” could possibly have been imagined.

D’Artagnan stirred. Shit. What was Athos going to say if d’Artagnan brought it up? “I take it back, but only if you don’t want it”? “I’ve loved you since I sat with you in a café in Gascony and watched you talk for an hour”?

D’Artagnan sat up and stretched. He rolled his neck with his eyes closed. Athos held his breath.

D’Artagnan opened his eyes. “Athos!” He scrambled out of his chair. “My god. You’re awake.” He cupped Athos’ face. “How are you feeling? Are you nauseous?”

“The nurse came in a did all the checks,” Athos assured him. “I’m fine. Just a headache, but she gave me a drip.” He raised his hand to show the IV.

“Okay,” d’Artagnan breathed. He still held Athos’ face in his hands. “Okay. You’re okay.”

Athos recognized his own mantra from the night before. He wrapped his hand around d’Artagnan’s wrist. “I’m okay,” he promised. “I’m still here.”

D’Artagnan bit his lip. “Your poor face,” he said, his finger just barely tracing the bruise that Athos could feel on his face. “And your poor hair.”

“It will grow back,” said Athos with an assurance he didn’t quite feel. Extrapolating from the look on d’Artagnan’s face, the process might take a while.

“I was so worried,” d’Artagnan confessed. “You looked so bad last night. You were all glassy and dazed, and you kept,” he swallowed, “kept asking us to stay, like you didn’t know if we would come back.”

“I’m sorry for making you worry, love.”

Athos stared at d’Artagnan, his last, unintentional, endearment echoing in his ears. His feet tingled again, ready to flee.

“And -- and that!” d’Artagnan spluttered. “You remember, don’t you! How could you just tell me that you love me for the first time when you’re lying in a hospital bed, looking ten steps from death--”

Athos reached for him. D’Artagnan made a gesture like he was going to slap Athos’ hand away, but he ended up tangling their fingers together, holding on like their connection was a lifeline.

“You can’t do that,” d’Artagnan said tightly. “You don’t understand, I can’t say it back when you said it like that. It would be too -- too much.” He bowed his head. “Sorry. I guess I had more hidden emotional responses to hospitals than I’d thought.”

He raised his head and tried to smile at Athos. “You get a freebie, okay? You can blow up at me about an unresolved emotional issue and I’ll ignore it.”

Athos was quiet for a moment, carefully assembling the words in his mind. “I suppose I was heartbroken at seeing you so sad,” he said. D’Artagnan stilled. “And I was worried that had been hurt as well. I wanted to make you smile the way you smile at me on Saturday mornings, when we’ve done nothing but sleep and make love. I wanted to help you heal the way you have helped me to heal. I asked you to stay, but you had to go, and I already missed you. That’s what I meant when I said that I loved you.”

D’Artagnan’s fingers were nearly crushing Athos’ own but Athos ignored it in favor of watching d’Artagnan’s face. His eyes shone with tears, but he was smiling.

“I like that better,” d’Artagnan whispered.

“Good.” Athos tentatively leaned forward and d’Artagnan met him halfway. The kiss was gentle in deference to Athos’ injuries, but d’Artagnan nipped at his lip and Athos felt a shiver down his back.

“You terrify me,” said d’Artagnan, “every time you get hurt. And you exasperate me, but you delight me more.”

“I’m constantly surprised by you,” Athos said in return. “And you thrill me every day.”

D’Artagnan peppered kisses across Athos’ nose. “I guess it wouldn’t be too much to say that I wish it was Saturday morning already, and I could have you safe and protected in your bed, without any criminals to do you harm?”

“I’m sure you could protect me from any stairs that threatened me.”

“Bellagio cornered you. He hit you and made you lose your balance. The stairs were just unlucky.”

Athos snorted. “Thanks to Aramis.”

“Did I hear my name?” Aramis called from behind the curtain. He flung the curtain aside to reveal himself and Porthos, both laden with multiple boxes and bags. “We come bearing gifts. How’s the stiff?” He surveyed Athos critically, looking over the tops of his new designer sunglasses.

“Shopping therapy?” Athos asked. “Isn’t that supposed to be for the patient?”

“Ah, but what’s good for us is good for you. It’s mutual. Helping out a friend.”

Aramis dumped his boxes on the empty bed next to Athos’ bed. He handed a wrapped box to d’Artagnan. “Go on, open it.”

D’Artagnan ripped open the wrapping with a dubious expression and lifted the cover. “Urgh!” He tossed the box back at Aramis. “Athos doesn’t want any petrified vulture heads."

“No, that’s not the kind of head he goes for.” Aramis lifted one of the petrified specimen out of the box. “Supposed to be very good for seeing into the future.”

He lifted a keychain out of a brightly colored bag. “Rabbit’s foot! Authentic. Best when rubbed, like a few other things I could mention.”

Aramis dropped his treasure on Athos’ bed as he revealed each one. A preserved four-leaf clover, a piece of amber in the shape of a star, a small carved ivory elephant, the small bone of a mammal, and a few shiny stones that he admitted he’d just found on the side of the road. “But they’re from my heart,” he said earnestly.

Athos looked at Porthos warily. “And what are yours? Powders and potions for luck?”

“These aren’t from me,” Porthos said, patting the pile of bags he’d brought in. “These are from your fanclub.”

“My… what?”

“D’Artagnan didn’t tell you?” Porthos laughed. “You got a following after yesterday’s heroics. It seems the Parisian police are very attracted to private investigators who are bravely wounded in the line of duty.”

“Ridiculous,” Athos said flatly.

Porthos indicated the pile of presents again. Athos thought he spotted a fruit basket. “Tell that to your fans.”

Athos looked at d’Artagnan. “They’re not really…?”

D’Artagnan smiled at Athos. “Personally, I think it’s because they saw you smile for the first time yesterday. The bad boy image was shattered in an instant.”

“My what image?” Athos didn't mean for his voice to go high in disbelief, but there it went.

"You know. Wearing all leather, not smiling..."

"Shut up, I smile."

D’Artagnan smothered a laugh and poked Athos’ ear, exposed by the bandage. “No wonder you hate getting haircuts. I never knew your ears turn red when you’re embarrassed. All this time I thought you never blushed.”

“His blood goes to other places,” drawled Aramis.

Athos turned his scowl on Aramis. “What are you doing.”

“Who, me? Doing what?”

Athos narrowed his eyes. “You’re being more obviously lewd than usual. What aren’t you telling me.”

“It’s not funny,” d’Artagnan said quickly, scowling at Aramis and Porthos. He glanced at Athos and stifled a giggle. He cleared his throat. “It’s not funny,” he repeated sternly.

“I’d throw you a bone, Athos, but I think it’s better seen than believed.” Aramis tossed Athos a compact mirror, hospital sized. D’Artagnan put a hand on Athos’ arm before Athos could open the mirror.

“Athos, you never got a look at what the Conein gang was transporting their goods in, did you?”

Athos felt a foreboding in his entire body. His feet were tingling again. “The objects on the table.”

“Right. The ones that Bellagio used to attack you. Well, they were, um, they were using…”

“Personal pleasure toys,” said Aramis brightly.

“Dildos,” said d’Artagnan. “Hollow dildos.”

Athos opened the mirror.

The dildo that Bellagio had swung at him must have been already filled with drugs, as the glancing blow had left quite a mark. It was already darkening into a deep bruise, and the tip, which had caught Athos on the cheekbone, was nearly purple. It resembled nothing more than an erect, flushed penis.

Athos closed the mirror. “Get out before you explode,” he told Aramis.

Aramis giggled. “Something looks like it’s about to explode, and it’s not me--”

Porthos snagged Aramis by the collar and dragged him out of the room. “I left makeup with the other pile,” he said. “You might want to use it.”

“But who knows, your fans might like the new look!” Aramis called back to Athos. He was shushed by five nurses and a few patients, and he settled with waving at them until he and Porthos vanished around a corner.

D’Artagnan’s smile faltered when he turned back and saw Athos’s face. “It’s _kind_ of funny,” he said.

“That whole time we were in here, you couldn’t tell me I had a dick on my face?”

“You’re handsome to me no matter what.”

“So you’d go on a date with my face like this?”

“Sure. We could pretend it’s a throwback to your college days.”

“I never had a penis drawn on my face in college.”

“You’re making up for lost time, I guess. Look at it like this: at least it’s not pointing the other way.”

Athos opened the mirror, unable to resist looking at it again. It was worse the second time. “Small consolation.”

D’Artagnan took the mirror from Athos and set it on the bed tray. He sat on the edge of the bed and swung his legs up so he was sitting beside Athos. “How about this: I love you... even when you have a dick bruise on your face.”

Athos smiled up at d’Artagnan. The three little words didn't matter as much as the intent behind them. “I wish I had the words to tell you how proud I am of you every time you exceed my expectations.”

“Yeah, okay,” d’Artagnan grumbled. He propped himself on his elbow and leaned down to kiss Athos. Athos luxuriated in the kiss and the feeling of d’Artagnan nearly on top of him. His shoulder was stiff, but he still managed to slide his hand around d’Artagnan’s waist.

D’Artagnan drew back. His face turned serious. “There’s something else I haven’t told you.”

“Bellagio didn’t hit me on the arse, did he?”

D’Artagnan smiled briefly, which was a good sign. “No. But I might’ve gotten a little overprotective when I saw you on the ground. I tried to keep you conscious by talking to you. Then I told Constance that I was going with you in the ambulance.” D’Artagnan chewed his lip. “In front of the team. I didn’t care at the time, but then I realized that you might not have wanted me to, you know, kind of out us.”

Athos tugged on a strand of d’Artagnan’s hair. “It’s all right.”

“Really?” D’Artagnan was watching him closely. “It’s not the ideal situation.”

“If they’ve seen your devotion to my well being, then it only means that I have to prove my adoration of you to them. I’m not ashamed of you, d’Artagnan. I may be unsure of myself, but I’ve never been unsure of you.”

“You shouldn’t be unsure,” said d’Artagnan quietly. He traced the bandage on Athos’ head. “You’re braver than you think.”

“Maybe so.”

Athos’ eyelids drooped against his will. He turned his head and yawned into the pillow.

“Rest,” said d’Artagnan. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“Are you staying up here?” Athos indicated the bed.

“If you want."

“I do.” Athos shifted until he could roll onto his side, and then he scooted backward until he lay on the edge of the bed. “Come here.”

D’Artagnan turned onto his side until he and Athos were pressed front-to-front. He tucked his arm under his head and tilted his hips so Athos could drape his arm comfortably over d’Artagnan’s waist. Thus situated, he pressed a kiss to an unbruised spot on Athos’ forehead.

Athos closed his eyes. Here like this, with d’Artagnan cuddled close to him, was like holding a thousand Saturday mornings in his arms.

**Author's Note:**

> Aramis does [Renner stretches](http://jeremyrennergifs.tumblr.com/post/29567471053/tom-cruise-a-funny-thing-happened-when-we-were) before ops. Porthos appreciates them very much.


End file.
